I turned the screen toward Beck. He was at the table with his own coffee, jacket on, not quite ready to do anything with the morning yet.
He read it. Set down his mug. "How?"
"Mrs. Delgado's porch light was on when we were outside last night," I said.
He went very still.
"And my guess is Ivy called her before she called us."
He stood up slowly, the way he does when he's processing something that requires his full height. He picked up his phone, looked at it, and set it face-down on the counter like it had given him bad news. "Ivy called Mrs. Delgado."
"Ivy called Mrs. Delgado."
"From Disneyland."
"She's very committed to outcomes."
A muscle worked in his jaw. He picked up his mug, realized it was empty, and put it back down. "Mrs. Delgado has a phone tree."
"She does," I said.
He crossed the kitchen then — not toward the coffee maker, not toward his phone — toward me. He stopped close enough that I had to tip my chin up slightly to read his face. His handfound mine where it was wrapped around my mug, and he held it there, warm and unhurried, not making a thing of it.
"You doing okay with all this?" he asked.
The question was quiet. Not worried, exactly. Just — watching.
I thought about it honestly, which was its own kind of new. "Ask me again after the third text," I said.
The corner of his mouth moved. He didn't let go of my hand.
He pinched the bridge of his nose with his free one.
The next message came from Hazel, who I am fairly certain does not sleep and instead refreshes the Station 7 social feeds until something actionable happens:
Hazel: omg omg BECK AND GEMMA. a fire captain and a paramedic?? the branding is IMMACULATE. I'm requesting a joint feature. dual professionals. a powerful duo for the community. just a few photos, maybe a short reel, very tasteful, this is literally the content Station 7 was made for. please say yes.
I read it twice. I showed it to Beck.
"No," he said, without breaking eye contact with his mug.
"She said tasteful."
"She put 'reel' in the same sentence. I rest my case."
Fair. I sent Hazel a smiley face and a "maybe later," which in Hazel-language would be interpreted as a soft yes, but buying time felt like the responsible move.
Mrs. Delgado arrived at the front door mid-morning with a covered casserole dish and a note in handwriting that did not leave room for debate:Feed that girl.Beck accepted it with the expression he gets when resistance has already been ruled out. The dish was still warm. The whole kitchen smelled like green chili and someone's grandmother had decided we neededlooking after, and I stood there in dinosaur pajamas thinking: yeah, fair enough.
And then Riley texted.
Riley Pritchard, who is one of the sharpest people I have ever met and who either has Hazel as a source or has developed the small-town information osmosis that everyone in Copper Ridge seems to acquire within six months of arrival:
Riley: FINALLY. I've been watching that man make you coffee for weeks. Tell him congratulations and that if he hurts you I will make an excellent prosecutorial witness. Also congratulations to you. You look happy. Don't run.
The last two words landed somewhere behind my sternum.
Coffee came out of my nose. Beck looked up from across the kitchen.
